


Of Cloaks and Misplaced Gratitude

by Mirime



Series: Lemoncakes and Tea [4]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Episode 2x04, Gen, I love the cloak symbolism, kink meme fic, non-descript physical abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:58:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirime/pseuds/Mirime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2x04 AU. Sandor speaks up for Sansa and what happens after. More platonic than romantic. For kink meme prompt but clean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Cloaks and Misplaced Gratitude

**Author's Note:**

> For message_send's [prompt](http://sansan-got.livejournal.com/20060.html?thread=321116#t321116) at [the kink meme](http://sansan-got.livejournal.com/20060.html): _2x04. Sandor says "Enough."_ Warnings for physical abuse.

Meryn brought the flat of his blade at the back of Sansa Stark's thighs and the girl went down to her knees, sobbing in pain and Sandor gritted his teeth to stop himself from saying something. The Boy King was becoming more and more unhinged lately. Sandor wondered if part of it was his fault. He had been guarding the boy for years and he knew that Joffrey held him in high regard, for all the insults and names he cast his way. Maybe the King could be made to listen to him.

"My lady's overdressed. Unburden her," the boy ordered and Meryn, the despicable scum that he was, was eager to obey. He tore the back of the girl's dress as she sobbed and tried to cover herself and Sandor knew that he couldn't keep quiet.

"That's enough!" he rasped and Meryn froze in place as did everyone else in the throne room. The girl herself raised her eyes to gaze at him, the look in those blue eyes unfathomable.

"What was that, dog?" Joffrey screamed and Sandor turned his head to look at his King.

"The girl has suffered enough, Your Grace," he spoke carefully but Joffrey would have none of it.

"I say when she has enough. I am the King! I-"

"What's the meaning of this?"

Sandor would never think he would be glad to see the Imp but as the Acting Hand of the King waddled down the length of the throne room, that insufferable sellsword of his swaggering next to him, he had to admit to himself he welcomed the Imp's presence. For one, it cowed Joffrey into backing down, his manner suddenly far more uncertain. The boy was afraid of his uncle, that much was clear.

"Somebody give the girl something to cover herself with," the Imp ordered and Sandor moved to obey, taking the white cloak that symbolized his status as one of the Seven Kingdoms' elite - and what an elite it was, he thought sarcastically - off and draping it over the girl's shoulders. She looked up at him, her face bearing the trace of her tears but she kept quiet, clutching the fabric around herself before looking straight ahead to where the Imp was lecturing the King.

Sandor moved back to his place at the stairs and watched as the Imp finished his tirade at his nephew, walked down and offered the girl a hand up. She rose gracefully to her feet, towering over the small man as she strode out of the throne room, the white cloak wound tightly around her, her head held high. Even the hem of the cloak trailing down after her didn't spoil the effect. She was very much the perfect lady. Sandor felt a corner of his mouth twitching as it always did when he was getting angry. This time it was with himself. He should have spoken up sooner and spared her the humiliation.

A clang of a wood hitting the floor drew his attention to his charge. Joffrey had thrown his crossbow down the stairs, pouting.

"The court's over. Get out!" he screamed at the assembled courtiers who all hastened to obey. It seemed to appease the boy slightly and he sat back on the throne, breathing heavily.

"Your Grace," Meryn started but Joffrey cut him off.

"Be quiet," he ordered and looked at Sandor. "You spoke up against me, dog."

Sandor knew he had to tread carefully even if he could get away with quite a lot when it came to Joffrey.

"I advised you, Your Grace," he said calmly.

"I didn't ask for your advice," the boy said petulantly. Sandor shrugged as if to show he could care less what Joffrey thought. "She had to be punished. She's a traitor."

"That doesn't make her your whipping boy," Sandor pointed out. Joffrey frowned.

"You can't talk to me like that," he repeated what he had told his uncle. "You are sworn to obey me."

"I never took the vows of the Kingsguard," Sandor snapped back. "I am no knight. I'm sworn to protect you, to act as your shield against those who would do you physical harm. Sansa Stark is not one of those."

Joffrey's face turned red.

"Her brother is!"

"And if he ever tries to kill you, I will defend you from him," Sandor replied. "But unless the girl comes after you with a weapon, I won't consider her a threat."

Joffrey was clearly at a loss for words, this defiance not something he was used to.

"I could have your head off for this insolence," the boy finally settled on saying and Sandor snorted in contempt.

"Aye, you could do that. And then you'll be left with the likes of him," Sandor jerked his head in Meryn's direction, "as your protectors."

"I am a knight of the Kingsguard," Meryn blustered.

"You are an upjumped toad in a white armour," Sandor told him. "You backed down from the Imp's sellsword pet quickly enough."

There was nothing that Meryn could say to his defense and he knew it so he settled for glowering at Sandor. Joffrey seemed amused by this by-play between his guards, though, his mercurial moods shifting again.

"You are forgiven this time, dog," he declared. "Now get out. I don't want to see your ugly face until tommorrow."

"Your Grace," Sandor gave a short bow with his head and gladly took his leave. He wondered what to do with the rest of his day, now that the King dismissed him from the guard duty. Maybe he would go and beat up on some knights in the training yard. Or maybe he would open that cask of Dornish red he had in his room and spend the rest of the day brooding.

"Hound!" a strangely accented voice called out to him as he was crossing the yard to the White Tower, a slender dark-haired female dressed in a servant clothes hurrying to him.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Lady Stark asks for your presence," the woman spoke up, averting her eyes from the ruined side of his face when he turned to her.

"Does she now?"

The woman frowned at him.

"I'm just delivering the message," she told him, her accent thickening in anger. "I don't know what she would want with one of you beasts after what you just did to her," she added under her breath but Sandor heard her clearly.

"You are quite rude for a servant," he told her, his curiousity now peaked. The girl had looked well enough when she had left the throne room but that might have been an act she had put on. Sandor wasn't in a habit of lying to himself and he knew he felt concerned for her well-being. He should go see for himself how she was holding up. The servant woman glared at him and spun around, leaving him to follow her, muttering to herself all the time.

When they reached the room that had been given to the girl after her father's arrest, the servant went inside first, leaving him to wait outside. It amused him more than angered him. The woman came back shortly after and beckoned him inside. Sansa Stark was lying on her stomach on the bed, wearing a dressing gown instead of her torn dress. Her servant was putting away a washing bowl and a jar of some kind of poultice. The girl must have been hurt pretty badly then, Sandor realized.

"You asked to see me, girl?" he spoke to her and she turned her freshly washed face to him.

"Yes, ser. Thank you for coming."

"I'm not a ser," he corrected her but without the usual scorn. The girl had suffered enough, he didn't want to add to that by being cruel to her. She still looked chastised, though.

"I apologize," she said quietly before she pushed herself up, wincing in pain when she turned over to sit properly.

"Milady," the servant rushed to her but the girl waved her off.

"I'm fine, Shae. Don't worry."

The woman, Shae, didn't look convinced but backed off all the same. Sansa settled herself against the headboard and reached over for a folded bundle of fabric that rested on a side table and held it out to him.

"Here..." she stumbled over her words, clearly unsure how to address him. He took the bundle from her, recognizing his white cloak. "I'm very grateful to you for lending me this," she continued at last, apparently deciding to skip the whole matter of what to call him. "And for speaking up on my behalf," she added.

"That's nothing to be grateful for, girl," Sandor told her. The fact that he had some decency left in him was no reason for her to thank him. If he had spoken before she had even been hit, then he would have deserved her thanks. Giving her a scrap of cloth to cover her torn dress and voicing a small protest wasn't worth her gratitude. However, she seemed to disagree as she offered him a small, brave smile.

"Maybe not for you, but it meant a lot to me. I..." she paused, searching for the right words. "You have my most sincere thanks," she finally settled on saying.

"You are welcome, girl," he acknowledged as an awkward silence descended on them. The servant was watching them carefully and Sandor cleared his throat. "Was that all you wanted, girl?"

She glanced at Shae and then back to him. She looked fragile and helpless for a few moments before she drew her manners around herself, like she had done with his cloak earlier in the throne room and she gave a small nod.

"Yes, that was all."

"I'll let you get some rest, then," he told her kindly and took his leave. He stopped in the corridor to put the cloak back on, his mind going back to how large it had been on her slender frame. He caught a whif of a floral scent and it took him a moment to realize that it was coming from his cloak. Her perfume must have clung to the fabric while she had worn it. Sandor frowned heavily and ripped the cloak off. The last thing he wanted was being reminded of Sansa Stark right now. She was a strange mixture of vulnerability and strength and he just didn't feel up to figuring her out. Or even thinking of her. Yes, the cask of Dornish red sounded perfect to him. It was just the thing to shut down his conscience and make him forget about this whole business with lended cloaks and a helpless girl's misplaced gratitude which he didn't deserve at all.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a serious love affair with the whole cloak symbolism thing in ASOIAF. The thing that pissed me off the most about Blackwater was the lack of cloak being left behind and Robb/Talissa's marriage thing felt woefully pitiful without the cloak exchange. On the other hand, I absolutely adore the few seconds in 2x04 where Sandor is putting his cloak around Sansa and she huddles into it. If I knew how to make gifs, I would sooooo make one of that and watched it every day for half-an-hour. Yup, I'm weird like that.


End file.
